


The Archive

by CaptainSwank



Series: The Archive [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Cuckolding, M/M, Mind Control, Objectification, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:27:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23506105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainSwank/pseuds/CaptainSwank
Summary: Elias has won, and he has Jon.And when he finishes Jon's transformation into The Archive, it erases his consciousness, leaving a vessel only for knowledge and Elias's use. Martin shows up to save him.It doesn't go well.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Elias Bouchard, Martin Blackwood/Elias Bouchard/Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: The Archive [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1700605
Comments: 26
Kudos: 143





	The Archive

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leitnerpiper69](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leitnerpiper69/gifts).



> This is a story about violating a couple of men in all the most horrible ways it is possible to do so.
> 
> If you so much as suspect that reading this will cause you any kind of harm in any way, I would ask you to please strongly consider not reading it. Please, please, stay safe and be well.

“Ah!” says a voice, businesslike and mild. “Look who’s finally decided to join us.” Martin is blinded by the thick hot darkness that surrounds him, and is deafened by what sounds so much like the buzzing of a hundred thousand coal black flies, but still he tries to make sense of what he sees before him. 

Jonah Magnus sits gracefully upon an impossible seat of nightmarish glory, an abomination of a throne that draws the eye upon it with an inevitable finality. Even in the infinitesimal moment of the blinking of his eyes, an unrelenting doom impresses upon them the need to open and to look. The starving frail fingers of reality barely cling to it with its weakened grip, and it gives off the impression of being somehow larger than the vaulted room in which it sits. It seems to flicker in and out of this world, and it drips with slick viscera that bubble and boil. Every time Martin tries to tear his gaze from it, it feels as if a million hungry eyes rest upon him. When his head snaps back to look again, he feels they may never have been there at all. And all along its terrible curves and angles, paper-thin, ghost-white webbing lies upon it like a fine and delicate lace. 

And upon Jonah Magnus sits Jonathan Sims. Martin can barely breathe. 

“Let him go!” he demands, giving voice to his strongest desire, thoughtless of futility or  cliché. Jonah’s laugh starts low in his throat, a chuckle at first, and it slowly grows to an awful crescendo. Jon’s head snaps up, pain and horror in his eyes when he sees who stands before him. 

“Martin,” he whispers, voice hoarse. “Martin, please, you have to leave--”

“No!” Martin shouts. “Jon, I won’t, I-I can’t, of course I can’t! I’m here to take you home with me! He… he can’t have you,” he finishes, with quiet menace.

Jonah, who has been silently observing the entire exchange in open amusement, takes that moment to step in. 

“I’m not entirely sure that decision is yours to make, Martin,” he says, smug satisfaction suffusing his tone like a sickness. 

“You won’t stop me,” says Martin, with a dark certainty. 

“Oh, I’m sure,” says Jonah dismissively. “But how unlike you to not consult with Jon on  _ his  _ feelings on the matter. Surely his perspective counts for  _ something _ here.” Martin feels a look of genuine shock replace the rage written across his face and he curses himself internally for letting Jonah throw him off his guard like this.

“J-Jon…?” he says in his confusion. He looks to Jon’s terrified face to try and understand what Jonah could possibly mean.

“Please, Martin, you have to go. Y-you have to leave me here. It’s the only way I can-- it’s the only way you can be--  _ please _ , Martin, go. Please do that for me,” he says.

“No!” Martin says, shocked again but this time by the force of his own outrage. “No, never! I… I won’t leave! I’ll stay until I figure out a way to free you from--”

“Martin,  _ please _ ,” Jon begs again. He looks into Martin’s eyes, trying to convey to him his need when his words are clearly failing. “Martin, I… I don’t have a choice.”

“Jon,  _ please _ , of course you have a choice! You always have a choice!” Martin cries. Jonah chuckles, amusement showing in the crinkle of his eyes.

“What a lovely thought, Martin!” Jonah says, as if speaking to a fumbling child reaching for an answer to a question far beyond its capabilities. “But I do believe we’re a little beyond all that, now. Isn’t that right,  _ my Archive _ ?” Martin wants nothing more than to screw his eyes shut to those terrible words, as if dampening one sense could impede the others. But he knows that in this moment he needs to be brave and strong for Jon, needs to show him that no matter what happens Martin will be there alongside him. He’ll hold Jon’s gaze and with his own try and let him know that Jonah’s words could never transform Jon into anything less than he is. But when his eyes meet Jon’s it’s not humiliation or hurt or defeat he sees there. At Jonah’s new name for him Jon goes soft and unfocussed and he shudders with an emotion Martin cannot convince himself is fear.

“ _ Mm,  _ yes,” Jonah says, with low and liquid feeling. “It knows what it is.” Jonah reaches up to gently push Jon’s unkempt hair off his sweaty forward. Martin’s breath catches at Jon’s barely perceptible inhale as he turns his head minutely to follow Jonah’s hand. “Now, doesn’t that feel nice?” Jon lets out a broken little whimper, and Martin’s rage would compel him forward to step up to Jonah and end his terrible existence, to gather Jon in his arms and take him as far away from this ruinous place as they can get. But in this world that Jonah has wrought from Jon’s fear and pain he has an iron grip on every weapon in the Eye’s arsenal, and wordless compulsion holds Martin fast. In his infinite mercy, he allows Martin only the clenching and unclenching of his hands. His bones creak and his blunt fingernails dig into his palms when he sees Jonah bring his lips right up to Jon’s ear.

“And do you know what might feel even  _ better _ ?” Jonah asks them in a theatrical whisper more suited for the stage. 

“ _ No, no _ …” Jon moans.

“What are you doing to him?” Martin demands.

“Yes, that’s right!” Jonah says brightly, oblivious to the lack of productive audience participation. “ _ It _ may indeed know what it is, but to know oneself might be the greatest horror in all of--” Jonah waves a vague hand “-- _ this _ .” Jonah brings his hand back down to softly stroke Jon’s hair. Jon makes little hurt sounds at every push of his fingers. “But imagine the alternative,” Jonah says, beginning to sound like a professor at his craft. “Imagine… a sort of oblivion. Look  _ outside _ , Jon. Look at the beautiful world we’ve --  _ you’ve --  _ made.” Jon makes a noise like he’s fighting it, fighting the inevitable opening of his eyes, but they’re staring wide as Jonah grips his hair to turn his head to look out of the giant windows in the dark hall that they inhabit. Martin can see soft tears start to gather in the creases of Jon’s eyes.

“Can you  _ imagine _ , Martin? What it must be like for him?” Jonah releases Jon’s hair and lets his head drop down to his chest again. “And can you imagine a state of being wherein one is so inundated with knowledge that one almost… ceases to exist? Indeed, a sort of annihilation of the self; an expulsion of toxins of a sort.” He laughs a little. “Nothing left but pure Knowing, certain and sweet,” he finishes, with obvious pleasure.

“ _ No, _ ” Martin whispers, and his mind is suddenly filled with little wisps and pieces of his adoration for all that Jon is: the thin purse of his lips when he corrects an ignorant mistake; the slightness of his body when he curls down so small to stroke a passing cat; the gentle elegance of his hands when he holds a pen. All the perfect little things Jon can’t see about himself over the blinding tide of his sins against the world.

And Jon  _ moans _ .

“Jon!” Martin cries out, and it’s all he can do in that moment. “Jon, please,” he says, in desperation.

“Look what you’ve done to everyone you’ve ever loved,” Jonah whispers into Jon. “Look what you’ve done to  _ him _ .” He gestures over with his eyes. Jon buries his face into the silken softness of Jonah’s shirt and Martin can hear his wet ragged breaths. 

“This isn’t you, I  _ know _ you don’t want this!” Martin tries. “Jon, don’t -- don’t  _ leave  _ me!” 

“Oh, you know, do you?” Jonah asks through a genuine smile. “You’re so very sure you know what he wants?”

“I do, I  _ know _ him--- y-you don’t know...” Martin stammers, rage and fear throttling his mind. “You’re lying, y-you’re--!”

“You don’t believe me?” Jonah asks, tone poisoned with mock affront. “Have I  _ ever _ lied to you?” The last words are whispered, dangerous. Martin tries to rifle through his memories like statements in an archive cabinet, but they seem to slip away from him, crumbling in his grip. He is permitted to shake his head but not to back away like he wants, not wanting to acknowledge what is inevitably to come. 

“Do you want to know what dear sweet Jon said to me the last time we had this little chat? In more private circumstances, of course.” The words sear through his mind and the physical memory of the last time Jonah -- Elias? -- did this to him returns in a wave of filthy nausea.  _ No, no, no, no, no, no, no  _ he chants under his breath. But he’s powerless to stop the memory seeping into his consciousness, and he would crumple to the ground were he able when he realizes the thoughts inside him weren’t born from Jonah’s twisted experience. A sound like that of a wounded animal is ripped from deep inside him when he realizes the memory had belonged to Jon. And just as he could not shut his eyes to the feeling of being watched, or his ears to the sounds of Jon’s torment, he could not shut his mind to the scene laid bare before him.

Jon rests before Jonah on hands and knees spread wide with his head bowed low. Jonah sits above him, atop the same dread throne upon which he currently reclines in the horrible unreality that they inhabit.  _ Please _ is what he says to Jonah, in this dark and twisted mindscape.

_ Please _ . 

Jon’s mind is a screaming writhing mass of ever-growing guilt, a monstrous wild tangle of thoughts now like a tower, now like the sea, in every rendition an overlapping nightmare of emotion that layers in upon itself and blends thickly together. He can feel Jon try to wrest control of his mind back from his own self, to order and organize and put every experience into its own perfect compartment. Now Martin sees Jon’s mind like the archives, but it’s not working, Jon can’t do it, every filing cabinet in his mind overflowing with the blue-gray arm of a dead coworker, the molten trauma of a terrified young girl, the ashes of a ruined world. 

Martin can feel the ache and the agony of the depths of Jon’s self-loathing more acutely than any hurt he had suffered in their mad quest to save the world. But this memory has already come and gone, and there is no way to go back and hold Jon, to comfort him and try and show him how lovely his soul truly is, to show him all the good that he had tried and succeeded to do for the world. Instead he can only watch with blunt impotence as Jon shakes and trembles on the ground in front of Jonah.

It’s impossible to disentangle the righteous fury at Jon’s utter self hatred from the horror of stealing this intimate glance into his most secret and private self. Of course he wanted this, of  _ course  _ he wanted Jon to share his pain with him -- he was going to wait, as long as Jon needed he would wait until he felt safe and comfortable enough to let Martin bear some of this crushing burden. He would… he would brew Jon some strong tea, and they’d sit in a cozy little alcove with a blanket and pillow and Jon would lay himself bare for Martin, surrender his soul to him in the most precious of ways. They would--

“Ah, ah,  _ ah,  _ Martin.” Jonah’s voice smashes through his consciousness like a hard slap to the face. It drags him away from his desperate retreat and drops him roughly back into the swirling terror of Jon’s black thoughts. “Watch closely, please. I wouldn’t have you miss a  _ thing _ .” In the memory Jonah rises from his terrible throne to step over to Jon’s prone form and crouch down before him. 

“Please  _ what _ , Jon?” Jonah asks sweetly. Jon sobs.

“Please, I’m afraid,” he chokes out.

“I know, Jon, I know,” Jonah whispers, hushing him. Martin’s skin prickles like he’s been dipped in acid at the horrifying intimacy of those words. But what burns him even brighter is the knowledge now lodged inside him of exactly,  _ specifically _ what it is that Jon fears. 

He’s afraid of losing himself, of course. He’s afraid that… that every time they do this he’ll lose pieces he can never recover. ( _ How many times have they done this before _ ? Martin thinks.) He’s afraid that every time he becomes Jonah’s plaything, it might be the last before he’s forever transformed into a blank tape made only to be filled.

And he’s afraid of how much he loves it.

How  _ good  _ it feels to be the Archive. 

“Please,” he hears Jon beg. “ _ Please _ make me--” And the memory immediately stops.

“And would you like some more?” Jonah asks indulgently. Martin trembles, fists clenched, tears pushing out of his tightly closed eyes. This is-- this is the worst kind of violation, this infringement into the space which holds all the vulnerabilities Jon buries as deep as he is able, but all Martin’s ever wanted was to be  _ let in _ . He cannot find his voice.

“ _ Greedy _ boy,” Jonah chides. “You  _ are _ well aware there’s no point in denying how hungry you are for my Archive. You won’t bore me by making me show you the thoughts you’ve only just had, will you? I should think you’d consider this a gift! How tedious a process to break down his will, crack open his polished little shell and squeeze yourself inside. And here  _ I’ve  _ already done the hard work for you! You don’t seem the type to waste a perfectly good opportunity, Martin,” he says.

“I-- I don’t  _ want  _ your… your  _ gift, _ ” Martin spits, but it comes out wavering. Jonah cocks his head to the side with a gentle smirk.

“Oh? Well, what about Jon? Now that you’ve seen the gift I have for  _ him _ ?” Jonah asks.

“No,  _ Elias _ , Jonah,  _ please _ ,” Jon begs, stumbling in his confusion. “Please don’t let him… please don’t make him see that. D-don’t show him that.” Martin flinches at the fractures running through Jon’s tone. He almost weeps again when he realizes his reaction registered with Jon, as he hangs his head even lower than before.

“Well he’s already seen it  _ anyway _ ,” Jonah says, sounding much like a bored tutor whose patience is running thin. “But I always find a live show more compelling than a repeat, don’t you?” he says. “And come now, Jon,” he whispers, his voice lowering. “Don’t you want to show Martin how good you can be?”

“Wh-what?” Jon asks in panicked confusion.

“Wouldn’t you like to show Martin how perfect I can make you?” continues Jonah.

“P-please, no, Jonah, I’ll do anything,” Jon promises. Elias reaches down to gently grip Jon’s chin between his fingers, tiling his marred face upwards, and he laughs.

“Oh,  _ Jon _ ,” Jonah breathes against his lips, gazing upon him with all-consuming rapture. “Haven’t you done enough already?” 

Jon and Martin’s dual cries of _no!_ come out entangled, two voices singing the same tune with different notes, Jon’s begging desperation and Martin’s knife-sharp agony mingling together. But it’s too late-- Jonah leans forward to press his lips lightly to Jon’s, eyes open and staring into those of the man before him. The world seems to shift minutely and Jonah leans back with a sigh of deep satisfaction to look upon the Archive’s transformation. 

Jonah, as always, is right. Seeing all of Jon’s perfect human frailty die in his eyes in real time only to be replaced by a sick green glow is so much worse than seeing it replayed back to him in the confines of his own mind. It’s a whole new horror to watch his mouth go slack, and to see the dissipation of the stress and the sorrow that’s carved into his face as deeply as the scars Jane Prentiss put there. A feeling of stark inhumanity rolls off of Jon in tainted waves as the impression of a hundred, a thousand staring eyes could be felt but not seen in a blasphemous corona around his very presence. 

“There now,” Jonah breathes in exultation. “All better.”

“ _ No, _ ” pleads Martin, despite its obvious futility. The Archive says nothing.

“Now, Martin, why don’t we be nice and quiet for a moment, there’s a good boy. I think it’s time we had a little fun.” Martin feels his throat constrict like there’s a tight closed grip around it, and now he can only choke and know and watch.

“As you’re about to see, Martin, there are so many delightful little ways to fill  _ up  _ the Archive,” Jonah begins. As he speaks, he slowly runs his hands up and down Jon’s unresisting form, pulling him and positioning him until he’s spread wide in his lap, pushed open for Martin to see. “There is so very much out there to read, as you well know.” He hooks Jon’s arms back around his neck for him to hold on. “Of course, there’s nothing quite like feeding it something a little more  _ vital _ , some  _ fresher meat _ .” He punctuates the last cruel words with a slow roll of his hips up against Jon, who moans loud and deep. “But you’re aware of that as well.” Jonah leans down to suck light kisses against the side of Jon’s neck. He reaches up around him to grip his chin again, tilting his head back to allow him access to the thick white scar there, along which he reverently runs his tongue.

“I know that’s what it loves best, but what truly pleases  _ me  _ is a more subtle approach.” Jonah releases Jon’s hair and moves his lips to Jon’s face. He alternates between soft small kisses and lightly dipping his tongue into the many healed holes that scar Jon’s cheek. Jon twitches and convulses in his arms. “And while I certainly see the appeal of whispering the results of two centuries of a ceaseless hunt for understanding into these ears--” Jonah stops to gently bite the curved shell of one “--I do occasionally indulge in a more  _ intimate  _ mode of communication.” Jonah slips his hands underneath Jon’s shirt and rubs them up and down, at once exploratory and possessive, and Jon gasps.

Martin can clearly see that Jonah’s doing it now, slipping inside Jon and filling him with dark understanding. Jon’s body writhes and undulates on top of him, the vile eyes that’ve replaced his own rolling back in his head. Martin wants nothing more than to see how they’d once looked -- he’d take them in the cold calculation of Jon’s displeasure; he didn’t even need to see them in those precious rare moments of unguarded softness. But still they glowed and pulsed in all their shimmering eldritch glory. And Jonah continued.

“There’s so  _ much _ , Martin,” Jonah says, and Martin sees in disgust he’s beginning to lose it  _ already _ . “There’s so much left for me to put inside,” he says, as he shuffles Jon out of his trousers and everything underneath, arranging Jon neatly in his lap again when he’s through. Martin knew this was coming, somehow knew since he first stepped foot in this accursed place, but there was nothing that could prepare him against its awful inevitability. Jonah reaches one hand up to slide long fingers between Jon’s dark bitten lips, and the other slips down to close his hand around where Jon’s so hard between his legs. Jon whimpers. Martin feels himself crack a little inside.

“And we have all the time in the world!” Jonah laughs high and a little crazed, caught up in the ecstasy of the thought. He rubs Jon slowly while he drools, slack-lipped around his fingers, and whispers things Martin cannot hear inside his ear. When he draws wet fingers from Jon’s mouth and slips them low behind him, Martin shatters. 

“It’s so hot inside, Martin,” Jonah whispers, and Martin doesn’t know if he means Jon’s body or his mind. It’s clear that he’s filling them both completely. “And this,” Jonah says, a little breathlessly, “is the part where we were so rudely interrupted before  _ someone _ \--” he looks meaningfully at Martin with barely-concealed amusement, “--felt the need to intrude upon our little scene. Isn’t that so?” he asks Jon, uncomprehending in his endless universe of purest sight. Martin twitches inside his cage of forced silence. 

“ _ Yesss _ ,” Jonah hisses, his pleasure almost tangible in the room. “So open for us now, isn’t it?” Jonah’s movements are obscured behind Jon, but he doesn’t need the power of the Eye to imagine glistening fingers pulling out his stiff cock, stroking it once, twice, and lining it up. Martin would cry out if he could, and his anguished voice would join Jonah’s rapturous tones and the cracked and broken moan that slipped from Jon’s wet lips. With one hand Jonah grips one of Jon’s slim hips, and he presses the other against Jon’s forehead. He pushes him back against his shoulder, and rolls up slowly into him, and Jon glows brighter and brighter and brighter. 

“Look,” Jonah pants, breathing heavily. “Look how sweetly it takes it all,” he says. “My Archive, my  _ Archive _ \--” In that moment Jonah’s iron concentration seems to break, because Martin realizes that he is again in full control of his voice. He wants to scream,  _ stop, let him go, I’ll kill you _ , but all that’s torn from his throat is an animalistic roar. Jonah brings himself to a slow stop inside of Jon, and looks at Martin, seeming almost genuinely impressed.

“Well!” Jonah says, trying to catch his breath. “Look at  _ you! _ Well done, well done indeed.” Martin clenches his teeth so hard he feels they might break. “I think you may have just earned yourself a _ reward _ .” The horrible meaning of that final word eats at Martin like a disease. He doesn’t want to ask. He has to respond.

“I told you,” he grits out, barely. “I don’t want anything from you. Just… just leave him  _ alone _ .” 

“How very unappreciative you are, Martin,” Jonah says, his tone conveying the mildest disappointment. “And after I’ve gone through all this  _ trouble  _ for us.” Martin can only grunt in frustration and in rage. “After I’ve prepared all this for you.” Jonah thrusts once, hard up into Jon, who cries out.

“ _ No _ , never!” Martin replies, but he can’t meet Jonah’s eyes. Jonah makes a show of examining his elegant fingers, his manicured nails. 

“I should think it would be in your best interest to take me up on my  _ generous offer _ ,” Jonah says. “After all, who knows when you’ll be blessed with such a chance again?” he says innocently, as Martin grunts with the exertion of trying to break Jonah’s control of his body’s movement. “Oh  _ yes _ , that’s right,” Jonah says with a slow and lazy wink. “ _ I  _ do.” 

And then Martin feels that Jonah’s let him go.

“Shut. Up.” Martin says darkly. He begins to stride toward Jonah’s throne, drawing up the full and intimidating bulk of his imposing body.

“Mm?” Jonah sounds mildly curious as he raises one dignified eyebrow.

“I said shut  _ up!”  _ Martin screams, and just as he’s about to meet Jonah on his throne he hears a small and broken sound from the thing writhing in Jonah’s lap.

“Jon!” Martin cries, the power of his priorities shifting his approach. “Jon, look at me, Jon,” Martin pleads, leaning down to hold Jon’s damp face in his large, warm hands. “Jon, please, i-it’s going to be alright, I’m here, I’ve got you,” Martin babbles as he runs his hands over the man before him. He wipes the sweat from his brow and sweeps the hair from his forehead, and cups his cheeks to tilt his head up. His eyes meet the unnatural green glow of Jon’s, whose monstrous pupils fail to focus on his own. They track wildly back and forth, almost as if Jon is reading an endless tome at an irrational speed. 

“Oh, it can’t hear you. Would you like it to?” Jonah asks indulgently. Before waiting for a response, he lightly trails the backs of his fingers down one side of Jon’s twitching face. 

“M-Martin…?” Jon asks, and all the phantom eyes around him have closed. The real ones in his own head have lost their sick light, and Martin sees the man replace the monster. And he feels Jon’s panic and terror and fear in the deepest parts of him.

“Look, Martin,” Jonah coos sweetly. “Look how it brings him peace. Don’t you want that for him?” Martin thinks about the lucid man before him, the man he’s loved with every atom in his being for so very long now. He thinks about the unrelenting agony he saw within his mind, the constant suffering that will not allow Jon sleep or rest or comfort. And he thinks about the pure clean blankness of the Archive’s stare. He thinks of the quiet in its soul. Jon wants to stop the hurt. Martin wants to stop the hurt. Maybe-- maybe this rage is simply jealousy and resentment turned outward, that Jonah can take it all away when Martin clearly can’t. He doesn’t-- he doesn’t know what to think anymore, doesn’t know what’s-- 

“And besides, Martin,” Jonah says conversationally. “Imagine how all  _ this _ would make him feel?”

_ I know you’re a man of mercy _ , he hears, sonorous words deep inside his head.

He closes his eyes. He hears Jon sob.

“Put him back,” Martin whispers. “Put it back. For this.”

“Of course,” Jonah says, and Jon disappears again.

Jonah allows it to go on like that for a while: he fucks up into Jon slow and deep, while Martin stands before his throne, whispering useless words… why? Certainly not for Jon’s benefit. He strokes Jon’s hair and cups his cheek, grabs his hand and entwines their fingers. He’s crying silently now, while Jon makes soft little gasps every time Jonah slides all the way in. Ever since… ever since his transformation, Martin has never seen Jon blink, he thinks. Something hideous burns him alive deep inside his guts. And Jonah laughs with the pleasure of it all, but it seems he can’t go a moment longer without pouring more horrible words into Martin’s ears.

“My offer --  _ ah  _ \-- my offer still stands, you know,” Jonah breathes. He smiles at Martin and raises his eyebrows meaningfully. 

“Do you really-- do you really expect me to…?” Martin tries, but can’t get it out. Jonah sighs.

“Must we  _ really  _ go through this song and dance again? Martin, you want it,” Jonah says.

“No!”

“You  _ want  _ it.”

“Not like this!”

“What is it, Martin? Worried it’s not feeling good? Because if that’s the case I have some--” Jonah leans forward to whisper conspiratorially to him “--insider information.” Martin almost chokes, but before he can respond there’s a memory in his mind. It takes him a half second for what’s happening to register, but he soon realizes what’s going on in the theatre of his brain is like a lagging playback, a universe a half step behind the real one he’s currently in. He folds in half like he’s been punched in the gut. What he hears is Jonah’s horrible voice in his mind, but what he feels--

“You really needn’t worry,” he hears, Jonah’s voice light and cheery but a little strained. “While its delicious mind might be elsewhere -- many elsewheres, in fact -- its body still functions in its use. Do you see?” Martin does, oh god, he does. “Physical sensations still register, as you no doubt now realize. Isn’t it terribly wonderful? All the pleasures of the flesh, without the burdensome stressors of the mind.” Martin is blazingly hard, and the force of Jon’s pleasure inside him pushes him forward. He leans against Jon and their foreheads rub together as Jonah moves. It’s incredible inside of Martin: a thick pulsing aching fullness feels like it’s stretching him wide, rubbing and pushing him in places that shoot fire through his nerves. He tries to push away Jon’s simple open blankness and tries to dig deep down and focus on the rage and sorrow anchoring him to his own resolve. He finds it, and he feels as if he might retch. 

“So you see, if  _ that’s  _ your concern, I shouldn’t be too worried.” Jonah fucks up into Jon a little harder, making the men in front of him moan slightly out of a sync.

“ _ You’re… No…”  _ Martin tries, wanting to tell Jonah he’s  _ mad  _ if he really thinks that’s the only problem with what’s happening here. 

“No?” Jonah asks, eyebrows drawn together, his face the picture of insincere concern. “What if we shift around… the  _ perspective _ .” At once the hot feeling of fullness leaves him and instead… instead what he feels is beyond incredible. He cries out and falls further onto Jon, Martin’s face buried in his shirt, rubbing against it at Jonah’s every thrust. Palpable, visceral disgust is at war with the gripping hot tightness around his cock when it becomes clear he is feeling Jon as Jonah feels him. 

“ _ No… _ ” he moans, but this is the most wonderful feeling imaginable, exactly how he’d thought of it almost every night since he’d first laid eyes on Jon in his charmingly outmoded bow ties and sweater vests, the tightly gripping heat driving him out of his mind with pleasure. And overlaid on top of it all is an overwhelming sense of smug satisfaction, of  _ victory _ . It’s hard to disentangle the pride from the love from the pity, the devotion from the disgust from the possessiveness, and the hatred from the joy from the all-encompassing adoration as he feels himself inch closer and closer to his own completion. 

And then it stops. 

“ _ Jonah _ ,” Martin moans, as he feels Jon shudder and shiver against him again and again. 

“No, no, I’m afraid that’s it, then,” Jonah says, in false tones of sorrow. “Unless, of course, you ask me  _ very  _ nicely.” The last words echo in his mind and they  _ reek  _ of evil. Martin tries, he does, he tries so hard, but all he can think of is Jonah’s promise that he’ll never get to have Jon again, that this will be his only chance. Those words consume him, those words and the feel of a hot and clenching tightness around his cock.  “Ask me, Martin,” Jonah says. “We don’t get what we don’t ask for.”

“I dont-- I don’t  _ want _ to!” Martin tries.

“I know,” Jonah replied, smiling. “ _ Ask me _ .” And that’s all it takes.

“ _ Please _ ,” Martin begs. “Please.”

“Please,” Jonah grunts. “ _ What _ ?”

“Please,” Martin starts again, through thick hot tears. “Please… may I…”

“ _ May I use _ …” Jonah leads him.

“ _ P-Please… may I use… the Archive…? _ ” Martin says.

“Very good! Very good,” Jonah says, as if wanting to give comfort. “Absolutely, Martin. You absolutely may.” And Martin’s body must be being controlled, because he wouldn’t but he does, he reaches down and pulls out his stiff cock while Jonah rises from his throne and pushes Jon down, down so they’re on their knees so Martin can feed Jon his cock. And it’s unbelievable, unlike anything he’s ever imagined, Jon hungrily tonguing him before opening his mouth and drawing him inside. Martin moans and tries not to look in Jon’s fucked out glowing eyes, or in Jonah’s ecstatic ones, or in any, any god damned  _ eyes _ . But he wants to watch Jon, wants to watch his prick disappear between those lips, needs a visual to accompany the man’s deep, muffled moaning.

He was so close from before that it doesn’t take much, hot sloppy sucks making him thrust and grunt. He slips himself out of Jon and grips himself tight, jacking hard and fast as Jon looks up at him with those cursed and shining eyes. And in that second in which he falls to pieces, he looks down to see his thick come landing hot between Jon’s eyes.

Not the Archive’s. 

Jon’s.

“M-Martin…?” he hears, followed by a tremendous moan as Jonah presses forward, bent in two, breathing heavily while his head drops to Jon’s back. Martin falls backwards, landing hard, trying to hurriedly tuck himself away, scrambling backwards. He buries his face in his hands and he sobs. 

“ _ Oh god _ ,” he hears Jon say quietly.

“Yes, yes, I think I quite… I think I quite like the sound of that,” Jonah says, and he laughs. 

It  starts low in his throat, a chuckle at first, and it slowly grows to an awful crescendo. 


End file.
